Someone asked me the other day if I died.
“Why?” I asked. “Do I look dead?”
“Well, uh, come to think of it … but let’s not go there,” was the reply. “Just wondering why you haven’t blogged in a while.”
That’s true; I’ve been an absent blogee. Blogiest. Whatever.
I have a good reason. Beyond I don’t want to, that is.
I’ve been contemplating.
Not long ago, the person who SAYS she loves me look at me while I was splayed out on the bed, which is where you can find me most days, and said, “My goodness, your feet are so cracked and scaly and ug …”
She caught herself before she said “ugly,” but the intent was clear.
“How dare you,” I said, indignant. “These feet … these feet here should be modeling Bombas socks. They should be in magazines. On TV. These feet are … are … well, they’re beautiful.”
She stuck me with a leveled gaze.
“You know Godzilla? Remember the scenes where there’s a close-up of him stomping a building to smithereens? That’s what your feet look like.”
I’m not gonna lie. That hurt. Pierced me right down to my soul.
“I have Godzilla feet?” I asked.
“No, sweetie, not really. Godzilla’s feet are actually more attractive. Your feet … well, you should hide them as much as possible. Nobody wants to see a 70-year-old man’s feet.”
Naturally, this has sent me into a spiral of depression. I haven’t been able to eat. I haven’t been able to sleep. Fact is, I’ve done little else since the ugly feet comment other than examining my feet and comparing them to Godzilla’s.
I gotta be honest, I just don’t see it. I mean, come on, his feet are green, after all. Mine are mostly not.
Anyway, I haven’t been able to write because all I can think of is feet.
So you can blame someone else for my lack of productivity.
The other day, the person who says she loves me noticed my funk and said, “I didn’t mean it. Your feet are just … um … fine.”
“They’re not ugly?”
“I didn’t say that. I think they’re okay. How ‘bout we take a nice walk and you can wear flip-flops. But put on socks first.”
“Okay,” I said. “It’s hot. I was thinking of not wearing a shirt.”
“Oh, no,” she said, shaking her head sadly. “Nobody wants to see a 70-year-old man without his shirt.”
I may never blog again.
E.E Williams is author of the Noah Greene mystery novels, the latest of which is “My Grave Is Deep,” which has nothing to do with feet.